


Five Times Sherlock Didn't Have a Heart, and One Time He Did

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock(TV) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-07 13:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the title says:  Five Times Sherlock Didn't Have a Heart, and One Time He Did</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mrs. Hudson

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters don't follow any sort of linear timeline.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock 'helps out' Mrs. Hudson, not out of the kindness of his heart, but because he's bored and needs the distraction. He ends up being more than a little cruel. Although everything _does_ work out alright in the end.

**1.  MRS. HUDSON**

 

Sherlock scowled at the people filtering in and out of the common area of the centre.  Visitation day was always so dull, perhaps because nobody bothered to visit _him._   Not that he would want them to, mind; the only person who would ever bother doing so would be Mycroft, and Sherlock knew that if he were to lay eyes on his brother right now, he would probably commit fratricide.  His parents were in England, and were too busy to bother with travelling to America in order to visit a son who had been arrested three times for possession and showed no signs of giving up his addiction.  Honestly, what Mycroft thought he was accomplishing by forcing him into rehab in _Tampa,_ of all places, he really didn’t know.  Sherlock was pretty sure it had to do with maintaining an iron fist of control over his little brother, and also probably with paying Sherlock back for telling his fiancée about the one gay experience he had had at university.

Sherlock sighed, curling in on himself in the well-worn armchair, tugging his ratty dressing gown around his body as if armouring himself against his environment.   Normally so fastidious in his appearance, he had rebelled in the only way he knew how since being admitted, by ignoring the dress code for the public areas of the facility.  No one had yet called him on it, probably because of the enormous amount of family money being funnelled here for the duration of his ‘treatment’.  Sherlock didn’t understand what result Mycroft was hoping for.  He had already been through two treatment programmes, one in London and one in Glasgow; he had relapsed both times within a week.   What was the definition of insanity, again?

Sherlock’s eyes restlessly scanned the room, picking out the most interesting people and silently deducing their life stories.  He caught sight of an elderly lady (early to mid-sixties) who was timidly making her way towards a listless young lady (being treated for alcoholism) that was sitting by the window.  The young woman’s unkempt dirty-blonde hair was plastered to her forehead; her lifeless eyes met those of the older woman (mother, obviously) as the latter sat on the sofa next to her and gently enfolded her daughter’s hands within her own. 

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock intensified his gaze on the mother as more details made themselves known, obvious to anyone paying attention.  Financially strapped from the look of her clothing, sliding her wedding ring up and down her finger as if unsure whether she wanted to keep it on or remove it, so her husband had been absent – no, incarcerated – for at least the past few months.  Oh, this was getting rather _fun!_

Sherlock jumped up excitedly, whipping his dressing gown around himself, and strode over to the two women.  He stopped a foot in front of them, crossed his arms and stared.  Two pair of alarmed eyes darted to his face and froze at his penetrating grey gaze.

“Can… I help you?” the older woman asked haltingly.

“Yes.  Your husband, what is he in for?”

“Excuse me?” came the indignant squawk.

He sighed.  “Your husband.  What is he awaiting trial for?”

The woman swallowed.  “How did you know - ?”

Sherlock waved his hand.  “Just answer the question, please?  What has your husband been accused of?”

“He – he was arrested for armed robbery, but he’s innocent, he was framed – “

“Yes, I read something about that in the papers.  Quite right, he is innocent of armed robbery.  He is, however, guilty of first-degree murder.”

 _“What??_ How _dare_ you…”

He scoffed.  “Oh please, how could you have lived with the man for over thirty years and not known what he was capable of?“

The young woman gave her mother a bewildered look.  Edith Hudson patted her daughter’s hand in reassurance before she stiffly pulled herself to her feet.   She drew herself up to her full five – foot three inch height and glared up at Sherlock.  “Young man, I don’t know who you think you are, but my Earl would never hurt a fly, let alone murder someone!”

Sherlock sniffed.   “What must it be like inside your tiny little minds, missing all of the details that don’t suit your preconceived, sentimental notions?   Once I get my hands on the evidence, it’ll take all of a couple of hours to convince the DA to go for the death penalty…”

Mrs. Hudson’s face immediately took on the most stormy expression Sherlock had ever had directed his way.  He involuntarily took a step back.  She stabbed a bony finger in his face.  “You stay away from my family.  Don’t you dare stick your nose into our affairs, it’s none of your business…”

Sherlock smiled tightly as he recovered his poise.  “Not _your_ affairs, obviously, but your husband’s had three in the past year and a half…”

“Stop it!” she shrieked, her distress mobilising two members of the staff into making their way warily towards them.

“Ma’am, is everything alright?” a large burly attendant asked, frowning as he approached Sherlock.

“No, everything is _not_ alright!  This gentleman is harassing me, please make him leave me alone!”

“Oh, fine!” Sherlock snapped, hands raised in surrender as he backed away.  “I’m leaving.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  With that, he shrugged off the orderlies’ attempts at restraint, and stalked out of the area towards his own room.

Sherlock, of course, disregarded Mrs. Hudson’s warning.  As soon as he was released from the centre, he made it his mission to gather the evidence needed to convict Earl Orville Hudson of the rape and murder of a sixteen –year old girl.  Eighteen months later, the man was put to death by lethal injection. 

Five years after that, Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock were as close as a mother and son, and Sherlock was introducing her to John Watson as someone who owed him a favour. 


	2. John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a hard time surviving without his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor changes have been made to Chapter 1.

**2\. JOHN WATSON**

 

 

Sherlock had told Moriarty that he didn't have one. Moriarty had turned around and informed him otherwise. He had never been more grateful for his enemy to have been proven right. Now, however, he found himself once again lacking a heart. It had been thoroughly burned out of him. Sherlock was determined to get it back.

Two years was a long time to survive without the presence of that most vital of organs. In some ways, it had been a blessing. Sherlock was free of the moral constraints that would previously have prevented him from undertaking the frankly horrific task that was before him. If he had to continually worry about what was right and wrong, he would never have got past the first leg of his mission.

In other ways, he felt the loss keenly. He desperately missed the guiding hand, the prompting to say thank you ('Just say it'), the whisper of 'a bit not good' in his ear ('Maybe don't do the smiling. Kidnapped children?'). The process of him becoming a good man had stuttered to a halt, with no promise of it ever starting up again. Especially if he remained on his own for much longer.

It was getting harder and harder for him to discriminate between self-defence, justifiable homicide, expediency and plain old-fashioned revenge. Every act of violence, every life taken left an indelible imprint upon his soul, added a bit more grey stroke by stroke until one day the picture being painted was going to be leached of all colour as it reflected back an image that was black and devoid of meaning. There was no longer anyone there to temper the darkness that had started festering inside of him. Soon he would no longer be able to find his way back.

It wasn't just in the large, life-altering ways that this absence made itself known. It was also in the quiet, contemplative moments, rare as those were now. It was in the way Sherlock had to make his own tea, and how he had to stop himself, each and every time, from preparing two mugs. It was in the way Sherlock paused after one of his rambling monologues, as if he were waiting for someone to respond. He would stare into the fireplace of a Swiss chalet, violin tucked beneath his chin, bow poised over the strings, and find himself unable to conjure up any notes because there was no longer an audience. Little things that added up to so much emptiness, so much loss.

He had gone out of his way to make it clear to Mycroft before this whole thing began that he didn't want to hear news of John while he was away. Distractions were best avoided, and a clean break was the advisable option. The only time he had faltered in his resolve was when he had appeared at his gravesite, desperate for a glimpse of his friend. That had been a supremely bad idea; Sherlock had spent weeks afterward fighting his re-awakened craving for a needle and syringe. After that, he had insisted on no phone calls, texts, letters or emails concerning the doctor. Out of sight, out of mind.

It was one thing to avoid seeing and hearing. It was quite another to avoid _feeling._

_  
_

* * *

_  
_

Finally, it was almost over. Three years in total, and what years they had been. The three snipers had all been tracked down and eliminated. All of the finer strands to the web that had been left feebly hanging after Moriarty's death had been snipped, burned and scattered to the wind. His name had been cleared by the loyal friends and clients he had left behind. The only thing remaining was to return to London and reveal himself. Funny how that seemed the most daunting task of all.

Sherlock wasn't concerned about the reception he would receive from most people. Those who had known him for any length of time would likely be resigned - disappointed but not surprised - having learned long ago to have low expectations in regard to his sociopathic tendencies. There was one person, however, whose reaction mattered. The one person who believed in his humanity, who had even expressed that belief out loud to his gravestone.

Would John accept him back, with the tattered remnants of that humanity clinging to him in a desperate attempt to maintain the illusion? Would John, who was the heart he had lived without for all these years, offer himself up once again and allow Sherlock to reclaim what had been his since the moment a bullet had snuffed out a cabbie's life?

Or would John take one look at him, see what the lack of his moral compass had done to him during his time away, and finally come to realise what everybody else had been saying all along? That he was just a lunatic, and would always let people down? If so, then John would turn away in disgust, and walk out of his life forever, taking Sherlock's heart with him.

He had worked himself up into such a state with these thoughts that it wasn't until he was back in the city and had already flagged a taxi that he realised he had no idea where John lived. He didn't even know if he still lived in London. Stammering out an embarrassed apology to the cab driver, Sherlock pulled out his phone.

_John's address? –SH_

Sherlock stared at Mycroft's response for a full minute. He pressed his hand to his lips, attempting to stifle the giggle that threatened to burst out. The cabbie cleared his throat expectantly. Sherlock looked up and grinned.

"Sorry. 221b Baker Street, please."

Sherlock settled back into his seat. He allowed his eyes to flutter shut as the cab made its way through the damp night. Typical London weather. Sherlock smiled. It was good to be home. He never wanted to leave again.

He pressed his hand to his chest, relishing the steady rhythm of his organic heart as it mirrored the quickening of his metaphorical one, tangible evidence of the importance of both. John would understand; he had to. Baker Street must go back to being the residence of Sherlock-and-John once again. There was no other option, not for Sherlock. His survival depended upon it.

Finally, he found himself standing at a blue door with familiar gold numbers. No longer hesitating, he lifted the knocker and brought it down on the wood twice. He stepped back, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, and calmly waited.

He was here to take back his conductor of light.


	3. Mycroft Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft bears the brunt of Sherlock's cruelty.

**3.  MYCROFT HOLMES**

 

 

He was nineteen years old, and he was suffering from his very first heartbreak.

University had just let out for the summer holidays. The chauffeur dropped Mycroft off at the front door, and he rushed inside, rucksack clutched to his breast as he made every effort to arrive at his room without running into any family members or staff. Much to his surprise, nobody attempted to engage him along the way. He pushed open his door and slipped inside, slumping with relief as he found himself finally in his sanctuary. He threw himself on his bed, burying his face in the soft, down pillow and finally let out all the anguish he had been carrying inside since two nights ago. Ever since his whole world had ended. His body shook with the muffled sobs that tore through his robust frame, sorrow engulfing every fibre of his being.

Clarisse had been the first; he had been a virgin until her. She had caught his eye halfway through first term; she had walked into his Introduction to Political Theory class, and he had been instantly smitten. Long, wavy, jet-black hair, piercing green eyes, legs that went on forever. She had felt his penetrating gaze, and had returned it unflinchingly. From the time that first class had ended, they had been inseparable.

They were together for five months. Mycroft had never been so happy. He found himself able to focus on his studies better when she was around, which really didn't make sense. Logically she should have been a distraction. But just by her very presence, she was able to quiet his turbulent mind. She was a miracle.

Two days before they were set to part for the summer, Mycroft jauntily set out for Clarisse's residence, whistling a merry tune. His fingers caressed the little black box he carried in his pocket, faint smile gracing his face. Today was Clarisse's birthday, and the stone he had had set for her ring was her birthstone, a half-carat emerald. Mycroft was so excited he could scarcely contain himself.

When he walked into her room, he was greeted by the sight of her kissing his best friend.

Mycroft's heart broke, twice.

 

* * *

 

"Mycroft, can you tell me where….what's going on?"

Unfortunately, Mycroft had forgotten to lock his door. And as luck would have it, his twelve-year old, immature, insensitive brother had just walked in on him crying over a break-up.

Mycroft rubbed his nose on his pillow, furtively wiping the tears off his face. Christ, he must look a mess. This was all he needed, to show weakness to the brother who used to idolise him, but now resented him for things that were beyond his control.

"Sherlock, can't you knock? Where were you raised, a barn?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Nice to see you, too. Did you pass term with flying colours?"

"What do you want?"

"No need to be so grumpy – are you crying?"

Mycroft huffed as he turned away from his brother, hands fisting into the duvet as he tried to regain control of himself. "Of course not! "

"You are!" Sherlock exclaimed gleefully. "What's the matter, did Oxford kick you out? Did you get cut from the rowing team? Or did you find out that the cafeteria is going to stop serving those custard creams you love to inhale?"

"Shut up!" Mycroft shouted, turning to face his brother, face reddened and tear-stained, dignity all but forgotten. "Just shut up, you little ponce! Get out of my room right now, can't you see I'm upset?"

"Oh, yes, I can see that very well," Sherlock smirked as he made his way further into Mycroft's room. "Your girlfriend broke up with you, didn't she?"

"Yes, she did. Now please, Sherlock, won't you just leave me in peace? I came here so that I wouldn't have to talk to anybody, and that includes you. Please, just let me be, yeah?"

"You should have listened to me, Mycroft. Why clutter your mind up with useless emotions? All they do is slow you down in the end, make you as stupid as the rest of the idiots out there. Why must you strive so hard to be so ordinary?"

Mycroft blinked. "What would you know about it? You're twelve years old, what could you possibly know about relationships?"

"Well, that's just the point, isn't it? I've made sure that I _don't_ know. Why would I want to be as miserable as you, sulking in my room, when I could be making use of my new-found freedom to do useful things? Speaking of which, can you tell me where your microscope is? Mine has a crack in the 100x magnification lens, and I need it to…"

"Yes, yes", Mycroft sighed wearily, waving a hand towards his cupboard, "it's on the top shelf. Just be careful with it, please?"

"Thanks." Sherlock flounced over and whipped the door open, stretching on his tiptoes as he reached up to grab the microscope (he wouldn't arrive at his final, impressive height for another three years). After having what he came for, he turned and started back the way he had come. He stopped as his gaze rested on his brother.

Was that a glimpse of compassion that Mycroft saw glinting in Sherlock's eyes? But no, as soon as he noticed it, it was gone.

"Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft. Remember that for future reference."

Mycroft nodded curtly. "Thank you, Sherlock. I'll remember to throw that back in your face in future."

Sherlock smiled tightly. "I really don't think you'll ever get the opportunity, Mycroft. I guard my heart better than that. Cheers."

"Yes. Cheers."

Sherlock left, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft got up and locked the door. Sighing, he collapsed back on his bed. Even though it was only three o'clock in the afternoon, he stayed there into the evening and on through morning. When he finally emerged for breakfast, his eyes were dry and his features unreadable. Sherlock took one look at him and nodded approvingly.

Twenty-three years would pass before Mycroft would shed another tear. When he did, it was over the body of his younger brother, a body that wouldn't have been there if Sherlock had truly taken his own advice to heart.

 


	4. "Killer" Evans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes not having a heart can be a good thing, especially when dealing with someone who has harmed the person you love most.

**4.  "KILLER" EVANS**

**  
**

Sherlock wasn't panicking. Sherlock Holmes _never_ panicked. He hadn't panicked when the cabbie pointed a gun at him. He hadn't panicked when he'd seen the yellow graffiti after John had been taken. He _certainly_ hadn't panicked when he saw John wrapped up in Semtex. Neither had he panicked when he caught a glimpse of the hound from hell. Even when he was faced with his own mortality on the rooftop of Bart's, he had never broken a sweat.

So, he _sure_ as hell wasn't panicking now.

"John? John, I need you to keep talking to me. Focus on the sound of my voice, there's a good lad."

Sherlock kept a firm pressure on the knife wound in John's chest as his eyes frantically scanned his friend's face. _Estimated time of arrival of ambulance, five minutes. Estimated time before John bleeds out, four to six minutes. Blood on John's lips indicates punctured lung, drowning in his own blood. Face ashen, deathly so, lips tinged blue, scarf already soaked with blood._

"She…. Sherlock…"

"That's right, John, keep talking. Tell me what day it is."

"Your..." *cough* "….your birthday."

"Yes, good, and how old am I?"

"Forty… Forty-one. Sherlock…"

"Right, good. Getting a bit old to be running after criminals, eh?"

John reached up and squeezed Sherlock's arm. "Never… too old for that. But… Sherlock… need to tell you…"

"Nope. No need to tell me anything right now, you can tell me after they patch you up. Hear that? Sirens. Music to my ears."

"No… not… you need to know… know that I'd do it all again. It was… all worth it… every second."

Sherlock gripped John's hand hard. "Don't be an idiot," he breathed, voice shaking. "You're going to be fine, everything's going to be okay. I didn't save you from a sniper's bullet only to have you die on me here, on my sodding _birthday,_ John, do you hear me?"

John smiled sadly, wincing from the pain. "Can't control… the day or time, m'afraid. Not your fault, don't regret… a thing. I'm so… so sorry….." John's grip on Sherlock's arm loosened as his eyes fluttered shut; his chest rose, fell… and failed to rise again.

Sherlock started trembling. "No, John, no, John, DON'T…."

The paramedics rushed to John's side and rudely shoved Sherlock aside. "He's not breathing!" one of them shouted. Sherlock stumbled, then immediately righted himself as he stood up and backed away from the scene. In an attempt to deny what was going on in front of him, he squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his hands over his ears. After several long minutes, he opened his eyes to the sight of several people blocking his view of John. His hands slowly descended to his sides. He stood there for several more seconds before turning and running in the direction in which he had last seen Evans.

He ran for several yards before realising he hadn't a clue where to start looking. He leaned against the wall of a nearby building, trying to catch his breath. His phone pinged; he reached into his pocket and brought it out, squinting as he opened his message.

_Got him. Warehouse 58. -MH_

_  
_

_  
_

* * *

 

_Thirty minutes later…_

_  
_

"You killed John Watson."

"Killer" Evans, also known as James Winter, smirked. "Did I? What're you gonna do about it, Holmes? Murder me in cold blood? I don't think so. Not even your big brother could get you out of that one. "

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You won't be leaving this building alive, although _I_ won't be the one who kills you. But let's concentrate on what I _am_ going to do to you right _now._ No witnesses, no police officers, just you and me. What do you say, James? Funny how the dirt bags I run up against are all named 'James', don't you think?"

"What're you talking about?"

"Ever hear of James Moriarty?"

"What does he have to do with me?"

Sherlock smiled, all teeth. "He tried to have John killed, as well. That didn't go over so well for him."

Evans sneered. "You had nothing to do with that. The psychopath offed himself."

Sherlock placed his fist under his chin and faked contemplativeness. "Hmm, yes, he did. I rather think that you'll wish you had done the same, after I get through with you."

Evans swallowed past the lump that was rapidly forming in his throat. He tugged uselessly on his restraints as Sherlock slowly approached him, silver eyes glued to his face. He didn't care for the obsessive, lethal focus the detective was sending his way. Although he really shouldn't be surprised, Watson had probably been the closest thing to a friend Holmes would ever have.

Evans spat out, "So it was big brother's goons that grabbed me while you was tendin' to your little pet? Couldn't even be bothered to run after me, could ya, not while lover boy was bleedin' out before your very eyes. What's it like, to lose the only person who ever cared about your sorry arse, the only one who didn't believe you was a fraud?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw as he grabbed the wooden beam that just so happened to be lying next to the bolted-down chair that Evans was strung up in. Quicker than a Ninja, Sherlock swung the weapon back and rammed it into Evans' stomach once, twice, three times. Snarling, he viciously tossed it aside as he grabbed the criminal's chin, forcing Evans to look into his crazed eyes.

"You will not speak of him again."

Evans spat in his face.

Sherlock grinned as he wiped the spittle off his chin. "Not going down without a fight, I see. Good. Very good. All the more fun watching you _break._ Mycroft gave me leave to deal with you as I see fit, but I'm not going to kill you. I'll leave that to my brother's clean-up crew, after I'm done with you."

Fear flashed in Evan's eyes, followed swiftly by disdain. "They wouldn't dare. That would be pre-meditated murder. Even _I've_ never done that. Watson just got in the way, it was self-defence. If you hadn't come after me, if you had just left well enough alone, your _dog_ wouldn't have got hissself killed. That was _your_ doin', by draggin' him along ….."

_Crunch._

Evan's head whipped back, red liquid spouting from his now broken nose. He glared at Sherlock, hatred oozing from his pores. "Is that the best you've got?"

Sherlock's lips curled menacingly. "Oh no…. I'm just getting warmed up. You have no idea what tricks I've come up with during that year I was playing dead. Glad I get to put some of them to good use again."

Panic flared in Evan's chocolate-brown eyes as he watched Sherlock stroll past him, calmly making his way to a point behind his back. He heard Sherlock moving something around, metal clanging against metal. He desperately tried to stretch his head around to look behind him, but his restraints prevented him from getting a good vantage point.

"What… what're you doin'?"

"Deciding what tool to use on you first."

"Oh god… please, just call the police, I'll turn myself in. Just… don't torture, me, please, anything but that."

A voice cold as ice responded. "Do you think John Watson suffered in his last moments?"

No response.

" **DO YOU**?"

Evans face crumpled in upon itself as he breathed, "Yes."

"Then I think it's only fair that you should suffer as well."

Sherlock walked back into his view, clasping an evil-looking metal implement that caused chills to shiver down Evans' spine. Sherlock grinned.

"I'm a sociopath, James. I can't even dredge up empathy for family members of victims; do you really think I'm going to have any for someone like you? Don't despair, though; in a little while, someone will come to put you out of your misery. I'm not a monster, after all."

And Sherlock set to breaking James Winter.

 

**

 

After he was finished, Sherlock turned his back on the man and started to walk away. A weak voice rose up behind him, giving him pause.

"Please… please don't let 'em kill me. I'll confess to Dr. Watson's murder, I'll confess to anything you want me to. Just… don't let 'em kill me. " The voice dropped to a whisper. "Please."

Sherlock resumed walking, pulling out his phone as he did so and texting his brother. _He's all yours. SH_

His phone sounded with a response, but he didn't bother checking it.

 

 

* * *

 

_Hours later….._

_  
_

Sherlock had been wandering the streets of London now for five hours straight. He had nowhere to go, not really. An empty flat seemed less than appealing right now. Night had fallen, crisp and cold, snow gently tumbling down and wetly clinging to his eyelashes. Whenever he got too cold, he hailed a taxi, and randomly chose destinations. His phone had been sounding text alerts every so often, but he ignored them all. He had been studiously avoiding all CCTV cameras; he didn't want his brother's attention and concern right now. He just wanted to be left alone.

January 6, 2017. Forty-one years old. He had never really thought that he would make it past forty. There was a time he didn't even think he would reach thirty.

This was certainly not the way he envisioned ending the day. He and John had had reservations at Angelo's for seven o'clock. It was way past that time now. John had annoyingly come up with the sentimental tradition of going to Angelo's for dinner every year for Sherlock's birthday. He always presented his gift to Sherlock during dessert . Sherlock, of course, always knew ahead of time what John's gift was. This year, it was a pocket-watch, with the engraving "To SH, the best friend I've ever known."

He closed his eyes. There was just one gift he wanted from John, this year, an impossible gift. _Just one more miracle…_

His thoughts were interrupted by another text alert. He blinked as he found himself re-orienting to time and place. There was only one person he wanted that text to be from, and he knew that wasn't going to happen. Sighing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, unlocking the screen.

_Sherlock, stop ignoring your messages. John is awake. He's asking for you. He wishes you a very Happy Birthday, with hopes of many more to come. –MH_

Sherlock's legs almost gave out on him. He reached out and steadied himself against the side of a nearby skip. He hurriedly checked the rest of his missed messages.

_Understood. John made it to hospital, he is in surgery. –MH_

_Evans taken care of.  Will not be traced back to you. –MH_

_John still in surgery –MH_

_Sherlock, respond –MH_

_John survived surgery, prognosis good –MH_

_Sherlock, stop ignoring your messages. John is awake. He's asking for you. He wishes you a very Happy Birthday, with hopes of many more to come. –MH_

Sherlock hastily typed out a response with clumsy fingers. _Which hospital? –SH_

_For Pete's sake. Charing Cross, naturally, the nearest one to the scene. Where are you, I'll have a car sent. –MH_

Sherlock told him, making his way back out of the alley towards the street proper. He sent out a silent thank-you to a God he didn't even believe in, thanking them for an answer to a prayer he hadn't even prayed. Once he arrived at the proper cross-street, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited to be taken to John's side.

It could be credited to the good doctor that a whisper of remorse for what had been done to Evans followed Sherlock into the car; just a whisper, one that was easily ignored, for now, but one that would continue to niggle at the recesses of Sherlock's conscience for the rest of his life.


End file.
